


Your hands are mine to hold

by Paintmeapicture



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: A little angst, But only for Frank..., Dubious applications of first aid, F/M, Feelings, Frank takes care of Karen, Hurt/Comfort, I think this fic makes me a murder-apologist???, I think?, If you ever read a Kastle fic of mine and there’s no bed sharing, Karen takes care of Frank, Kissing, Matt is the Worst, Mentions of canon-typical violence, Send the cops because it’s an impostor, Sharing a Bed, Sorry this is not a Matt-friendly space, Still figuring out the tropes lol, my fave!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-16 23:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18953707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paintmeapicture/pseuds/Paintmeapicture
Summary: It can't be this easy, can it? Dating Frank Castle couldn't possibly be as simple as luring him to her apartment and asking him to stay and then dragging him out for drinks with her friends.When you put it like that, it sounds absurd.





	Your hands are mine to hold

**Author's Note:**

> This happens post-season one of The Punisher. We are pretending that Daredevil season three and The Punisher season two don’t exist, because we can. Basically my thinking is that the ending of season two, with Frank deciding that being the Punisher is a good use of his time, happened after season one instead. But he never completely ghosts Karen. Also I’ve never seen the Defenders so... I’m ignoring that too. I know technically Matt is ‘dead’ during season one of the Punisher? I think?? But for my purposes he is alive. And still an asshole.
> 
> Final note, I do not like Matt Murdock and this fic shows it. So fair warning, if you’re a Matt fan… this is not a Matt-friendly space. Sorryyyyy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

She was in the first aid aisle of her local Duane Reed, the first time it happened. She’d just checked her phone, had a text from Ellison about a recent gangland murder, a multiple homicide, _looks like the Punisher’s work, doesn’t it?_ the text said.

It had been a while since she’d heard from Frank, he wasn’t great at keeping in touch beyond the occasional _I'm still alive_ text, some sort of misguided need to insulate her from his work. But that never stopped her from missing him, _worrying_ about him. The worry was a near-constant ache in her chest — she just wanted to know that he was alright, that he was taking care of himself. A futile wish, she knew — the man had absolutely no respect for his own life.

She’d been about to buy a new tube of antibiotic cream, hers was running out, and she liked to have it on hand. She already had it in her basket, she should finish up, head home. She had stuff to do, after all, an article to finish, and she was supposed to meet Trish and Foggy for drinks later. She should get going.

Instead, she picked up a few more things — butterfly strips, gauze, a suture kit, medical tape, a couple of ace bandages. She felt silly doing it, it wasn’t like he was going to show up on her doorstep — _fire escape is more likely_ , her mind whispered — bloodied and in need of medical attention. And yet…

She bought the supplies, took them home, arranged them in the cabinet in her bathroom. Stared at them for a long time after, feeling exhausted. God, she missed him.

She put on her brave face, went out with her friends, drank just a little too much. Whatever, she’s an adult, if she wants to get drunk on a weeknight, who can stop her? If Foggy or Trish notice anything odd, they don’t say anything. Foggy pours her into a cab at the end of the night, prepays the driver, which Karen fusses at him about.

“I’m not that drunk, Foggy,” she says, the slight slurring belying her words.

“I know,” he says. “It’s the only reason I’m letting you go home without an escort.” She rolls her eyes, but smiles and thanks him.

 

The second time is worse.

She was talking to Brett about another case when he mentioned off-handedly something that had happened at the docks recently. A bunch of human traffickers had been found dead, riddled with bullets, in a warehouse. A man dressed in black tactical gear had been seen fleeing the scene, but the responding officers had lost him. One of them winged him, though, Brett said, and Karen felt herself go pale.

“Karen? What’s wrong?” Brett said, noticing her sudden loss of composure.

“I— nothing, I forgot to eat lunch is all,” she says, the best excuse she can come up with. Luckily, it’s her, so it’s a believable one. He plies her with a granola bar and a cup of coffee, and she casually asks if there was anything else of interest about the incident at the docks. He says no, shrugging as though it’s completely uninteresting. Maybe Brett is becoming immune to vigilantism.

She excuses herself as quickly as possible without looking suspicious, starts googling on her way home. Can’t find any more information than what Brett already shared. When she sees the CVS sign she doesn’t pause, doesn’t think, just goes in and buys all the rubbing alcohol and IcyHot and surgical gloves she can find.

Her bathroom cabinet is starting to get full, but she can’t seem to stop herself.

 

She starts watching first aid tutorials on YouTube, tells herself it’s just good knowledge to have. She should be grossed out, the videos get progressively more graphic as she falls down the YouTube rabbit hole, but honestly it’s soothing, in a way. She spends her days looking at crime scene photos, at the unspeakable things gangsters do to innocents, so learning how to put people back together helps her feel better.

 

The pattern repeats itself for the next few weeks, until finally Karen can’t stand it anymore and puts the roses on the windowsill.

She’s been trying to give him space, and she doesn’t even know if he’s watching her apartment anymore, but she gets drunk one night and decides to try. What the hell, right? The worst that happens is he doesn’t show. Which won’t be any different than the purgatory she’s been living in since that damn hotel elevator, anyway. It's been six months and she's at the end of her rope — _I'm still alive_ texts just do _not_ cut it.

She waits and waits, eventually succumbing to exhaustion and alcohol, passing out on her couch.

When she wakes up in the wee hours of the morning to the sounds of Frank grunting as he tumbles in through her window — _see? Fire escape_ , her mind whispers triumphantly — she sits bolt upright and then stares at him stupidly.

“Frank?” She says, her voice barely more than a breath.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He says, his voice rough, and he’s kneeling before her, his hands running carefully over her limbs, fingers ghosting over her face, checking to see that she’s sound and whole.

“I— what—” It's so close to her anxiety-fueled fantasies that she can’t seem to form a coherent thought, and then she notices the dark puddle pooling under his right leg where his knee presses into the rug. “You’re bleeding on my rug,” she says, and he grunts.

“Yeah, it’s been a rough night,” he says, and she doesn’t know for a moment whether she should be slapping him or kissing him. Manages, somehow, to refrain from giving in to either impulse.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” She asks instead, and he looks at her, his eyes dark as ink in the half-light of her apartment. “Never mind, it can wait,” she cuts off any possible response before he can attempt it. Grabs his hand. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.” She hauls him up, pulls his arm over her shoulders to support him when he sways on the spot, and drags his sorry ass into her bathroom.

“You don’t have to,” he protests, but he doesn’t resist, lets her prop him on the edge of her tub, and she doesn’t even dignify that protest with a response.

“Alright, give me the sitrep,” she says, pleased when he cracks a smile at the jargon. “Where are you hurt?” She turns to her cabinet, starts digging around for supplies while he rattles off a few injuries — all of them fairly minor, she’s relieved to note.

“Bullet grazed my side,” he says, indicating the splotch of blood on his right side above his hip. “That’s the worst of it, everything else is minor cuts and bruises.”

She gives him a look over her shoulder. She’ll believe that he’s only got the one fairly major wound once she’s had a chance to inspect him herself.

“Take off your shirt,” she orders, and tries not to feel disappointed that the first time she’ll get to see Frank Castle shirtless is when he’s covered in blood and dirt and god knows what else. She should have known it would happen this way.

There’s a pause where Frank clearly debates whether he should let her patch him up or just leave and deal with things himself now that he knows she's okay, but it’s a short pause. She hears the tearing sound of Velcro as he unstraps his tactical vest, then his breath hitching as he tries to get his shirt off over his head.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna have to cut this thing off.”

Karen has been laying out supplies on the counter, and she grabs the scissors from where she laid them.

“Hope this wasn’t your favorite,” she mutters, going to work. In moments she has the shirt in pieces. She tosses the rags into the corner. She can deal with them later.

She’d always known Frank was fit, but _damn_. She’s almost glad she has to focus on his injuries, because otherwise she’s pretty sure she’d be embarrassing herself right now.

She starts with the bullet wound — he hadn’t been lying, there really is just the one. She cleans it with rubbing alcohol and is relieved to find that the wound isn’t very deep. It’s going to need stitches, but she’s pretty sure she can manage. She places his hand over the wound, making him apply pressure to stop the bleeding while she checks out the rest of his injuries. He has some bruising across his torso, and there’s a shiner blossoming under his left eye. Shallow lacerations cover all the exposed skin on his left side — face, forearm, neck, anything not covered by his clothes.

“What’d you do, go through a window?” She asks, indicating the thin cuts. He huffs a laugh.

“Nah,” he says. “Small explosion blew out the glass in the warehouse.” She doesn’t ask what warehouse. She’s saving the tough questions for later.

“And this?” She indicates the bruising on his torso.

“Fistfight,” he says. She presses gently on his ribs.

“Anything broken?” He shakes his head, eyes steady on her.

The bleeding has stopped from his bullet wound. She tries to thread a needle so she can stitch him up, but her hands are shaking too badly.

“Hang on,” she says, disappearing into her living room. She comes back a moment later with a bottle of whiskey. She takes two long pulls for herself, the alcohol burning a trail of warmth down her throat to settle in her stomach, before offering the bottle to Frank.

He’s been watching her, eyes drinking her in, and he takes the bottle without looking at it, fingers brushing hers. She blames the whiskey for the way her hands tingle at his touch. He holds her gaze as he takes his own gulps of whiskey, and she tries not to notice the way his tongue touches the bottle just before his lips do.

She takes a minute to let the whiskey settle in her veins, then tries again with the needle and thread. She’s more successful this time.

“This might hurt,” she warns Frank, and he nods, looking completely unconcerned, his eyes burning into her. She kneels down in front of him, between his knees, and carefully starts stitching the long gash stretching across his side. She winces more than he does as the thread pulls through his skin.

He has his hands braced on the edge of the tub on either side of him, until the third time she brushes her hair impatiently out of her eyes. It keeps falling into her face, she should have tied it back because now she can’t see what she’s doing, and then his hand comes up and runs through her hair, holding it back from her face. His hand is warm and rough with callouses, and she freezes for three full seconds at the contact. She very carefully does not look up at him, doesn’t want him to see whatever is in her eyes at that moment.

She draws a shuddering breath, and continues her task.

“You gonna tell me why you have a mini emergency room in your bathroom?” Frank breaks the silence, his voice rumbling around her. She doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“Worried about you,” she finally mutters, tying off his stitches. He frowns. “God, Frank, I worry about you all the goddamn time. I see stuff in the news, or a tip comes across my desk, or Mahoney makes an offhand comment, and I know it’s you, I always know which ones are you, and I think ‘What if this time he didn’t walk away,’ and then I run to the nearest pharmacy and clear out their fucking first aid aisle. I know you’d never come here if you didn’t think I had some emergency, I _know_ it,but I can’t stop myself, I buy all this bullshit just in case.”

There’s a ringing silence. Great, she’s said too much and now he’s going to disappear and she’ll never fucking see him again.

“Hey,” he says. His hand is still on her head, and he buries it deeper in her hair, turns her face up towards his. “Hey. I’m sorry.” His voice is soft, almost as soft as his eyes on her face. He reaches up with his other hand and brushes her tears away — she hadn’t even realized she was crying. He pulls her into his arms, and she wraps her own around his torso, heedless of his injuries, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m just trying to keep you safe,” he grumbles into her hair, and she scoffs into his shoulder. He smells like gun smoke and blood and she wishes she didn't find that so comforting.

“Never needed your help getting into trouble,” she says, and he laughs against her.

“Yeah, guess you got that right.”

“Will you…” she trails off, can’t believe what she was about to say. Decides, for the second time that night, _oh, what the hell_ , and asks anyway. “Will you stay?” He doesn’t answer for a moment, and she tightens her arms around him unconsciously.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

She can’t hide her sigh of relief.

Eventually she pulls away. Offers him the use of her shower, which he accepts gratefully.

“I don’t think I have any clothes that would fit you, though,” she says.

“Left my bag on your fire escape,” he says. “I always keep a couple changes of clothes in there, just in case.” Something about the way he says it makes her think the bag is primarily for other things, and the clothes are an afterthought. She has a pretty good idea what other things the Punisher would be carrying around, and sighs a little.

“I’ll go get it,” she says. She finds it exactly where he said it would be, and isn’t surprised when it weighs a ton and clanks ominously as its contents shift. She drags it into the bedroom for him, finds a clean towel, and returns to the bathroom. He’s standing when she enters, his boots off and his belt buckle undone. He’s dirty and disheveled and beat to hell, and she’s never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life, goddamn him.

“Here,” she says abruptly, handing him the towel. “Your bag is in the bedroom. Are you hungry?” He smiles at her a little.

“I could eat,” he says.

“I’ll order something.” He nods.

“Thanks, for this,” he says, and she knows he means everything, patching him up and letting him stay and now feeding him.

“Get cleaned up,” she says.

She goes out to the kitchen, washes her hands and face, orders from the Indian place down the road that’s open 24/7. While she waits for the food to show up, she texts Ellison that she won’t be in the next day. She doesn’t know what Frank’s plans are, but she’s hoping she can at least get him to go to breakfast with her. And after the night she’s just had, she’s not about to struggle through eight hours at the office.

Ellison responds almost immediately — the man never sleeps — _take tomorrow and take Friday, too, for god’s sake you never take any time off, don’t argue, I’ll see you on Monday._

She snorts, texts him a thank you. Realizes her clothes are covered with blood. She’s in the bedroom, has just finished changing into clean pajamas, when the bathroom door opens, spitting Frank out in a cloud of steam. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else, and her heart seizes in her chest.

They stare at each other, and she’s starting to think that’s all they’re going to do for the rest of the night, just stand there and stare, when there’s a knock on the apartment door. She jolts a little, and Frank tenses, but she holds out a calming hand.

“It’s just the delivery guy,” she says, going to pay. When she comes back into the living room, Frank is scowling at the blood stain he left on her rug. He's fully clothed now, wearing a white T-shirt.

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. “You got anything I can clean this with?” It makes her smile, he's always so respectful, so _conscientious_. So she digs around in the cabinet under the sink and finds the bottle of carpet cleaner she bought that time she spilled red wine, hands it to him.

“Spray it and then leave it to soak while we eat,” she directs, moving back to the kitchen, smiling at his “yes, ma'am.” She puts out plates and silverware on her island, starts unpacking takeout containers. Digs a couple of beers out of the fridge.

She's just popping the tops when Frank comes up behind her, smelling like carpet cleaner and her shampoo, and she can feel his body heat without even touching him. He sits beside her at the island, elbows brushing, and she lets him get some food in him before starting her interrogation.

“You gonna tell me what you've been doing?” She asks, and he looks at her for a minute before nodding slowly.

“Been some shady stuff going on at the docks lately — I know, big surprise. But I've been looking into it, found out there's a new human trafficking outfit in town. Been working on it for a little over a month. Tonight was the last of them.”

“I heard a cop shot you,” Karen says. It wasn't what she meant to say, but damn it she's been worrying about what Brett said for weeks now.

Frank nods. “Got me in the leg,” he says, pulling up his left pants leg so she can see the healing scar on his calf. “How'd you hear about it?”

“Brett mentioned it. He said something about a bunch of human traffickers being murdered and a man in black tactical gear getting winged as he fled the scene.” She shrugs. “Seemed pretty obvious who that might be.”

This, inexplicably, makes him smile at her, the cute crooked one that she's only seen a few times.

“So if you've finished with the traffickers, you could take a couple days off, right? Actually take care of yourself for once?”

His smile deepens, and finally he nods. “Yes, ma'am.”

She looks away, suddenly shy. “Good.”

They finish their meal, chatting companionably about the stories Karen is working on, some of her recent articles — it's like catching up with a friend, even though that word is far too small to encompass her relationship with Frank. He gives her a few leads, gently suggests that she should leave one potential story alone — “I'm taking care of it,” he says, refusing to elaborate, and she decides to drop it, at least for now.

She tries to help him clean up, but he keeps gently moving her out of his way. “Come on, let me pull my own weight,” he says, so she leans against the island and watches as he moves around the small space. He seems right at home, putting the leftovers in the fridge, washing the dishes. He even wipes the counters down.

He cleans her rug, too. She curls up on the couch while he works, and she's yawning sleepily by the time he's done.

“You didn't have to stay up,” he says, voice low.

“I know. Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand as she stands up. “Let's go to bed.” Frank goes still. “What?”

“I can take the couch,” he says.

“You do _not_ want to sleep on this thing, trust me,” she tells him. “Your back would never forgive you.” She gives his hand a little tug as she moves toward the bedroom. “I promise I won't jump you in the middle of the night. Or morning. Whatever.”

When she glances at Frank, he's _blushing_. She has to bite her lip to keep from grinning at him. He does let her pull him along behind her without too much resistance.

She lets go of him once they're in the bedroom.

“You need anything? Glass of water?”

“I'm good. Thanks.”

“Alright. Which side do you want?” He blinks at her. “Of the bed. Which side?”

“Uh, which side do you sleep on?”

“I sleep in the middle, Frank,” she smirks at him, and he snorts.

He picks the side closest to the door. She should've guessed.

She crawls in on the other side, curling up facing Frank, and he hesitates another moment before lying down beside her on his back. He looks at her for a moment before turning off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Goodnight, Frank,” she whispers.

“Night, Karen.”

 

When she wakes up the next morning, she's sprawled on her stomach, and Frank's hand is wrapped loosely around her forearm where it rests between them on the bed. He'd rolled onto his side sometime in the night, facing her.

This is the most peaceful she's ever seen him.

She gently pulls away, gets up as quietly as she can. He must be exhausted, because he grumbles a little in his sleep when she pulls out of his grasp, but otherwise he doesn't stir.

She goes through her morning routine, starts a pot of coffee, showers, brushes her teeth, gets dressed in day-off clothes: jeans and her favorite T-shirt. The shirt is black and printed all over with little white skulls and roses. She'd laughed when she saw it in the store, couldn't resist buying it.

She's in the kitchen drinking her first cup of coffee when Frank stumbles out of bed.

“Morning,” he mumbles, absently kissing her on the cheek, and her heart stutters in her chest. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“Didn't mean to sleep so late.”

“It's ok. You got shot last night and we were up until three in the morning. I think you're allowed to sleep in,” she says, pulling a mug out of the cabinet for him, the one with all the guns printed on it. He reaches around her to grab the coffee pot, his chest brushing her back, and she can feel his voice rumbling all the way to her toes when he speaks.

“You been up long?” He pulls away to pour coffee in the mug she set out.

“Less than an hour.”

He reaches out, tweaks the hem of her shirt. “Classy,” he says, trying to hide the small smile on his face behind his mug as he takes a sip. She should have known he'd get the reference immediately.

She grins back at him, entirely unrepentant.

“What are we doing today?”

She _really_ likes that “we.”

“I don't know, what does the Punisher normally do on his days off?” He raises an eyebrow at her, but she raises hers right back at him and he rolls his eyes before answering.

“Sleep in, clean my guns, read a book… you know. Normal stuff,” he says, and she laughs at him.

“Well, for starters, you can take me to breakfast,” she says. He smiles.

“Yes, ma'am.”

It's one of the nicest days Karen has had in years. They try the new diner that opened up a couple blocks from her apartment a month ago. She's been meaning to go but never found the time. Frank drinks about a gallon of coffee in the hour and a half they sit there, eyes flicking around constantly, watching her, their surroundings, other patrons, cars going by outside — all without ever losing the trail of the conversation.

“Your veins must hold more caffeine than blood at this point,” she teases him, and he laughs, the sound surprisingly carefree.

“You're one to talk,” he tosses back, and she realizes she's on at least her fifth cup. She toasts his point with her mug, taking a sip and smiling at him over the rim.

After breakfast they take a long walk, enjoying the late spring warmth and sunshine. Frank walks close beside her, their shoulders brushing. He puts one hand on the small of her back a couple of times, guiding her around obstacles or steadying her from being jostled by passers by. He drops it quickly each time, but for once she doesn't mind the protectiveness. Frank has a way of looking out for her without making her feel helpless.

They talk about the books they’ve been reading and tv shows Karen has been watching — Frank doesn't watch tv, because he doesn't own a television.

“Curt keeps giving me the classics to read,” Frank says. “I like them, but damn if they aren't depressing as hell sometimes.”

Karen laughs. “I prefer sci-fi, myself,” she says, and gives him a few recommendations — “The _Murderbot_ Diaries?” He laughs incredulously.

“You'll like them, the main character is antisocial and snarky. Also, you know. Murdery.”

“Hah,” Frank rolls his eyes at her, but there's a smile in the corner of his mouth that he can't quite hide. She wonders when this became something they could joke about, exactly when she accepted what he does instead of trying to argue against it. Maybe when she helped him find Micro, maybe when he jumped in between her and Lewis Wilson's bullets, maybe when she made him hold her hostage and could see that it nearly broke him to do it.

Maybe when he said _please_ and kissed her cheek in the darkness.

Karen eventually confesses to a love of telenovelas. “They're just so preposterous, it's fun.”

She shares some of her favorite storylines, all the most ridiculous ones that get Frank laughing.

It feels like a first date. It feels perfect and right, and, not for the first time, she questions her sanity. He's a mass murderer, a wanted man, a vigilante who kills without remorse — and she loves him. _Fuck_ , she loves him so goddamn much. It hits her like a freight train, watching him laugh in the sunlight. He's beautiful and dark and bright and she's been a goner for months and she lets it wash over her now, stops fighting it.

She loves Frank Castle and she's never going to stop.

 

Clouds roll over the city in the early afternoon.

Karen grabs Frank's hand to pull him in the direction of her apartment. “Come on, let’s go home before it starts raining,” she says, and his grip tightens almost convulsively on hers at the word “home.” She meant only to guide him and let go, but she can't quite make her fingers loosen — and Frank doesn't let go either.

They don't make it back in time — the heavens open up just as they turn the corner onto her block, and they make a run for it, arriving sopping wet at her building. They tumble through the doors, laughing like children. They take the elevator up, and she tries not to remember the last time they were in an elevator together and fails. Frank's gaze is hot, flicking over her cheeks and collarbone, lingering on her lips, and she sways toward him slightly.

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open, and Karen comes back to herself a bit.

Back in her apartment, they change into dry clothes (Karen into a T-shirt and leggings, Frank back into the T-shirt and sweats he slept in) and Karen changes his bandage, checks that he hasn't pulled any of his stitches. When she's done, he puts his shirt back on (a shame, that) and they settle close together on the couch, listening to the burble of the coffee maker brewing a fresh pot in the kitchen. They argue amicably about what to do with the rest of the afternoon, eventually settling on watching a movie.

Which then leads to a longer argument about what to watch. Karen could honestly not care one way or the other if they actually watch anything or if they just sit there arguing about it for the rest of the afternoon.

He's playing with her hair and she's trying not to lean into it like a cat when his expression grows suddenly serious.

“I should go,” he says quietly, voice rough. “I've taken up enough of your time, you probably have better things to do.”

She snorts at him. “Don't be stupid.” His eyes snap to hers. “I like having you here. You should stay.”

He frowns at her. “You want me to?” It's an echo of an earlier encounter — _Hey, when am I gonna see you?_

_You want to?_

“You're such an idiot,” she says. “Stay. Stay the whole weekend.” _Stay forever_. The thought should scare her, but it doesn't. Nothing about Frank — with the glaring exception of his likely-early death — has scared her in a very long time.

He stares at her for a long moment. Slowly nods, and she lets out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

“Good. I'm hungry,” she changes the subject, getting up to go dig through her collection of takeout menus. “What sounds good? Pizza? Vietnamese? Sandwiches?”

“Chinese?” He says hopefully, and she smiles at him over her shoulder, pulling the correct menu out of the pile.

“Works for me. You order,” she says, tossing him the menu and her phone. She listens with half an ear as he makes the call. It's a test, of sorts, though not one he could really fail. She just wants to know what he likes, where their preferences overlap. From the way he holds her gaze, he knows exactly what she's up to.

She makes an innocent face at him, grins when he rolls his eyes.

She hands him a beer, laughing when he snags her wrist and pulls her back down beside him on the couch.

“We gonna pick a movie or what?” He asks as she settles next to him, their thighs pressed together. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch, and he starts fiddling with her hair again.

“I've been trying, it's not my fault you keep vetoing my choices!”

“Well pick something _good_ and I won't have to veto it,” he retorts.

Her phone rings, and she's still laughing when she answers it.

“Karen Page,” she says.

“Karen? I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?” It's Matt, and she has to hold back a sigh.

“Hi, Matt,” she says, and feels Frank go still next to her. “What's up?”

Frank moves to stand up, and she just _knows_ he's going to try to leave. She puts her hand on his chest, holding him in place. He frowns at her and she stares him down.

“Ah, I was wondering,” Matt starts, and she squeezes her eyes shut, scowling. He's about to ask her out, _again_ , she just knows it. He does it every couple of weeks, convinced that if he just apologizes enough, waits her out, she'll forgive him and they can go back to the way things were before.

The problem is, Karen has already forgiven him — but she doesn't want to go back. She likes Matt, in spite of his _many_ idiosyncrasies, but their brief attempt at a relationship had been nothing short of a catastrophe. They had some pretty significant differences in their views of morality, which wouldn't necessarily have been a problem if they had just been honest with each other. But they hadn't, and between him blowing off the majority of Frank's trial, her finding another woman in his bed, and him tanking the only part of the trial he did show up for — she didn't think she'd ever trust him again.

Not to mention the whole “by the way I'm the Devil of Hell's Kitchen” debacle.

Besides, the fact that he refuses to leave it alone is beginning to wear on her.

“Matt,” she says before he can go on. “We’re friends, right?” She tries to ignore how tense Frank is beside her.

“Of course, Karen,” Matt rushes to assure her.

“Great. I need you to stop asking me out,” she says. “Because if you don't, we aren't going to be able to stay friends, and I don't want that.”

There's a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Is someone else there?” Matt finally says, and it throws her for a loop — it wasn't the response she expected. She briefly considers lying, but knows it won't do any good — he'll know it's a lie. Plus she figures he can probably hear Frank _breathing_ or something, rolling her eyes at the thought. She doesn't know how much he can get over the phone, but she wouldn't put it past him. Luckily Frank has the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut — she's pretty sure nothing would stop Matt from recognizing his voice.

“Yep,” she says.

“Is… is it a man?”

She looks at Frank, considering the question. “Oh, yeah,” she says, perhaps a touch too fervently. That's when she realizes Frank can hear Matt's half of the conversation, too, because he blushes. She stops listening to Matt completely — she's made Frank blush twice in less than twenty four hours. _The big bad Punisher blushes when Karen Page makes suggestive comments_. She can feel her lips curve in a smug smile.

“Karen? Are you there?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” she says, dragging her gaze away from Frank. “Still here. How are things with you? We should get with Foggy and Marci for drinks soon, it's been too long.”

“I— yes, it has been,” Matt agrees, but it sounds like he's asking a question. There's another pause. “You could bring your new boyfriend.” She knows he's digging, trying to get her to divulge something, _anything_ about the man in her apartment.

“Sure,” she says without thinking, and, confusingly, feels Frank relax. She stares at him again. “I'll bring him. I'll start a group chat, maybe we can meet at Josie's tomorrow.”

What is she _saying_?

She has no idea why she's doing this, she's barely found Frank again and it's not like they've had _that_ conversation yet. She doesn't know if they ever will, the man is still grieving his murdered wife and children. Maybe her subconscious is trying to force the issue. _Get it together, Page_.

Fuck, what will Foggy say when she tells him she wants to date _Frank Castle_? When she shows up at Josie's with her “new boyfriend” and it's Frank? Not to mention the part where Matt loses his shit. Not to mention the part where Frank isn't even her boyfriend. She curses her big fat mouth.

“Sure, great,” Matt's voice is wooden.

“Okay, well I'm gonna go now,” she says brightly. “Bye, Matt, see you soon.” She hangs up before she does anything else insane or stupid. Or both.

Frank is watching her, and she realizes belatedly that she still has a hand on his chest. She snatches it back as though burned.

“So, uh, I guess you got all of that?”

He laughs, his eyes warm. “Yeah, sweetheart, I heard the whole thing. Red been giving you a hard time?”

“You could say that,” she says, blushing without really knowing why. “He wants to play make-believe, act like I'm as sweet and innocent as I look and he's as noble and blind as he pretends and then we live happily ever after. Which is never going to happen.”

Frank is frowning at her. “He thinks you're sweet and innocent?”

She blinks at him for a moment. “Uh. Yeah.” _Real articulate, Karen_. “It's a common mistake.”

“I never made it,” Frank says, and Karen blushes again.

“Yeah, well, the first time we met I yelled at you and copped to breaking into your house,” she says. “And then I just kept breaking laws for you from there. Plus those eyes of yours see everything.” She taps him on the nose with one finger.

He captures her hand before she can take it back, presses it to his heart.

“Want me to kick his ass?” He offers, and she can't help but smile.

“I've got it under control, but thanks,” she says. He nods easily, accepting her decision. She loves him for offering, but loves him even more for not arguing with her about it. He knows she can take care of herself. “So, uh… you don't have to come to Josie's. If you don't want to. I don't even know how Matt and Foggy will react.”

“I'll be there, if you want me there.” He says it so easily.

She bites her lip. “Yeah, I kinda do. Is that selfish? You could be caught. What if Marci calls the cops? What if Matt picks a fight? What if Foggy takes one look at you and starts screaming?”

The image of Foggy screaming at the sight of the Punisher in a bar proves to be too much: Frank laughs long and loud. He still has her hand pressed to his chest, so she can feel his laughter shaking his entire body. She can't help but smile — both at the mental image of Foggy (who may be afraid of Frank, but he's made of stern enough stuff that she's pretty sure he wouldn't actually scream), and at the simple fact that Frank is laughing, hard. It takes years off his face, and she can almost see who he was Before.

“We'll figure it out,” he finally says when he's regained control.

Karen bites her lip. It can't be this easy, can it? Dating Frank Castle couldn't possibly be as simple as luring him to her apartment and asking him to stay and then dragging him out for drinks with her friends.

When you put it like that, it sounds absurd.

“Okay,” she says, deciding to leave it alone for now. She's already mentally preparing arguments for Foggy and Matt, trying to decide the best way to break it to them that she's still in contact with their least-favorite former client, and, oh by the way, she wants a lot more _contact_ than she's already had.

She pulls out her phone to start the promised group chat, and there's a knock at the door that has Frank on his feet, gun in hand, in the blink of an eye.

“Jesus, Frank, it's just dinner,” she says, and he shrugs, a little sheepish but ultimately unapologetic.

“Old habits,” he says, heading for the door. She notices that he tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, and that he keeps one hand on it until he's certain the delivery guy is not an assassin. Well, she supposes that's fair, and a little caution never hurt anyone before. Not that either of them are usually all that cautious.

Her phone, meanwhile, has already started to blow up with messages. Foggy is enthusiastic about meeting up, though Marci has plans already and won't be able to make it. Karen is relieved about that — she likes Marci well enough, though they'll never be best friends, but she'd just as soon not have her involved in the initial “Karen Page is in love with a mass murderer” conversation.

Matt has chimed in that he'll also be there, and he's outed her about her “new boyfriend” before she can get a word in edgewise. Which prompts a series of increasingly exclamation-point-filled texts from Foggy, demanding details.

She hesitates for a moment, not sure this should be done over text message… but then decides to go for it, sending her own series of texts, vaguely aware of Frank moving around the kitchen.

_Okay, first things first, he's not actually my boyfriend_

_We haven't really had that conversation_

_But I definitely want to go there so… be open minded_

_You already know him…_

_It's Frank_

There's a long pause where neither Matt nor Foggy responds. Matt is probably still listening to his phone read the texts aloud.

Foggy is probably trying to decide if she's pulling a prank. He ends up responding first.

_I only know one Frank, and you can't possibly mean him because he's supposed to be DEAD!!_

_KAREN!!!_

_Please tell me he's dead!_

_Is this a joke are you drunk do I need to call the cops?????_

She bites her lip.

_I'm not drunk, it's not a joke, PLEASE DO NOT CALL THE COPS._

Matt finally chimes in: _Karen he's a MURDERER_

She rolls her eyes. She finds Matt's obstinate insistence that Frank is a monster extremely irritating. For one thing, Karen's hands aren't what anyone would call clean. Which Matt doesn't know, but any judgment he passes on Frank applies to her, although arguably to a much lesser degree (after all, she's only killed two people to his… dozens, at least. Although she only actually feels guilty about one of them).

And she fails to see how it's morally _better_ to maim people and put them in comas (things which she _knows_ Matt has done to criminals) than to kill them. Not that she wants to argue that what Frank does is _good_ — because it's not, not really. She’s never really agreed with his actions, but she could _understand_ them. And just because what Frank does is bad, doesn't mean what Matt does is _good_. In some cases, it's just as bad.

Although she would hardly hold herself up as a moral authority.

_I am aware, Matt. And I don't care._

_He's a good man, and he respects me_

_He's honest with me_

_Look, neither of you are going to talk me out of this_

_I'm bringing him to Josie's tomorrow, I'd love if you both came_

_Please don't make me choose between you_

That last is probably a low blow, but she really doesn't want this to be that big a deal. Matt's a vigilante, too, for fuck’s sake. And while she's willing to concede that he and Frank operate in different ways, they're both firmly in a morally-charcoal-grey area. The difference between them is one only of degree.

For what seems like forever, there's no response.

 _Of course I'll be there, Karen. Though let the record show that I am not entirely comfortable with this_ — from Foggy.

_Thanks, Foggy_

She doesn't really expect a response from Matt, and she doesn't get one. He'll either show up or he won't. She tosses her phone on the coffee table and scrubs a hand over her face.

Frank has been patiently waiting beside her, sipping his beer and watching her face.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, great. Matt's a sanctimonious jerk sometimes, but what else is new?”

He smirks. “Sometimes?”

She snorts. “Okay, most of the time.”

“I can still kick his ass for you. You know, if you want,” Frank offers.

“You know, Frank, if you want to kick Matt's ass, you don't need me to give you an excuse,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him. “You can just go pick a fight with him, completely unrelated to anything to do with me. He'd probably even thank you.”

“Eh, he's awful fancy for me,” Frank shrugs, doing a one-eighty on the subject. “All those flips and spins and shit. I prefer a straightforward brawl, myself.”

“I'll bet you do,” Karen rolls her eyes.

“C’mon, food’s getting cold,” Frank says. “And you still have to find a movie that doesn't suck for us to watch.”

 

Karen wakes up in bed, warm and cozy, with no memory of how she got there. (She finds out later that she fell asleep during the movie and Frank carried her to bed. Which just proves that the universe is not on her side, because being carried to bed by Frank fucking Castle? _Definitely_ something she deserves to remember.) She shifts a little, murmuring drowsily, and Frank's arms tighten around her.

That's new.

Fully awake, she can feel his breath warm against her neck. He has both arms around her, one circling her waist, the other wrapped around her shoulders, bicep under her head and forearm warm against her collarbone. She should feel completely smothered, but… she doesn't. She snuggles back into him, and he hums sleepily, a very Frank sound, and nuzzles her neck.

A girl could get used to waking up like this.

“Go back t’sleep, Karen,” Frank mumbles.

“Mmm. Okay.”

 

When she wakes up again, Frank is gone.

She sits up with a sigh, listening to her apartment. It's quiet, quieter than it's been since Frank showed up two nights before.

She sighs again, flopping back against the pillows for a moment before pushing herself up and out of bed. Throws a robe on over her tank top and shorts combo, and wanders out to the kitchen. There's a fresh pot of coffee, and a note.

_Back soon, F._

She rolls her eyes at the brevity. It's so _Frank_.

When he shows up an hour later, Karen has had a shower and three cups of coffee. She's sitting on the floor using her coffee table as a desk as she sorts through the notes she's gathered for her latest exposé, fiddling with the ends of her hair where they poke out of the end of her braid. She hadn’t felt like going to the trouble of curling it today. She hears the lock turn in the door and reaches for her gun automatically. It’s never far out of her reach these days, a side effect of her job and her complete refusal to allow criminals and corrupt officials to get away with their crimes.

Well. Except for Frank.

“It’s me,” he says when he has the door open. “Don’t shoot.” She looks down at the gun in her hand, then up at him as he comes around the corner. He’s holding a paper sack full of groceries in one arm, a small duffel slung over his shoulder. He looks good, freshly showered and clean shaven and smiling at her like he missed her.

“How’d you know I had my gun out?” She asks, amazed. He smirks at her.

“You forget, I’ve come through your front door before. Came close enough to getting plugged that time that I’m not taking any chances.” He tosses her keys to her, smiling when she catches them one-handed. He dumps his duffel on her couch — she notices that this one doesn’t clank — and moves into the kitchen. Karen watches as he moves around the space, putting groceries away. He’s so goddamn _domestic_ , and it should be weird — the Punisher shouldn’t look so at-home and normal doing such mundane things as putting milk and eggs in her fridge. But he does, and it’s so natural that Karen can’t help but _want_. She wants this, wants Frank in her life, buying her groceries and smirking at her over coffee and judging her taste in movies.

“You hungry?” He calls, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Mm, yeah,” she says. She hasn’t moved from her seat at the coffee table, watching as he comes over and snags her empty coffee cup. He drops a kiss on the crown of her head, and she closes her eyes, savoring the feeling for a moment, trying to let it be enough.

“More?” He asks, and it takes her a second to realize he’s asking if she wants a refill and hasn’t read her mind to ask if she wants more of _him_.

“Please.”

“I’ll make you an omelet,” he says, tugging lightly on the end of her braid. “You like mushrooms? Peppers and onions?”

She nods, and he heads back to the kitchen. He brings her more coffee, and she pretends to work while he chops veggies and beats eggs. Eventually she gives up even the pretense of not watching him, leaning her elbow on the table and cupping her chin in her palm. He’s wearing a light grey Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and jeans that are perfectly worn-in.

God, she needs to get a hold of herself.

She gets up and wanders over to lean against the island. “So,” she says, mostly to distract herself from watching his hands. “You went grocery shopping.” As conversation starters go, it’s not her best work.

“You eat like a nineteen-year-old boy, ma'am,” he says, cutting her a look. “Your fridge had beer and takeout containers in it. And nothing else.”

“That’s because I’m too busy to go grocery shopping,” she tells him. “And I don’t actually like cooking all that much.”

“All this time I’ve been worried I’d get you killed,” he mutters. “But your diet’s gonna do that before any of my enemies manage it.” She can’t tell if he's joking.

“Come on, I don’t eat that poorly. I eat vegetables. And fruit. And rice. Rice is good for you.”

“If by rice you mean the pork fried rice we had last night, it doesn’t count. You know how much soy sauce they put in that stuff?”

Karen has had a lot of weird experiences since she came to New York, but Frank Castle lecturing her about her dietary habits makes the Top Five Weirdest Things to Happen to Karen Page.

“I don’t believe this. You literally pick fights with criminals on a daily basis and you’re giving me shit about my sodium consumption?”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Eat your omelet,” he says, sliding her half out of the pan and onto a plate. They eat at the island again, and Frank keeps glancing at her as though he's about to say something.

“What?” She finally demands after the third look he gives her without saying anything.

“It's not daily,” he mutters.

“What?”

“I don't pick fights with criminals on a daily basis.”

“Oh my god. _Weekly_ , then, whatever. My point stands. My sodium intake is hardly the most unhealthy habit in this room.”

He eyes her for a long moment, and then his face splits into a grin.

“Okay, fair,” he says.

She tries, unsuccessfully, to keep an answering smile off her face.

 

She’s nervous. Like, _really_ nervous.

It’s a weird experience. Karen doesn’t get nervous. She’s been through so much insane bullshit over the past couple years that nothing really fazes her anymore. The last time she got kidnapped, she didn’t even cry. The last time she got taken hostage, the part that upset her the most was watching Frank leave afterward and not knowing when she was going to see him again.

But here she is, completely freaking the fuck out.

She and Frank are standing outside of Josie’s. She’s looking at the door, but Frank is looking at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him fighting a smirk.

“Hey,” he says. “We going in?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yep. We are.” She doesn’t move. This was her own terrible idea, you’d think she could follow through without losing her shit. Well, she supposes she can lay some of the blame at Matt’s feet.

Frank turns to face her. Tugs on her elbow until she reluctantly turns towards him.

“Hey,” he says again, and waits until she meets his eyes. His hands are warm on her shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She bites her lip.

“They just want to make sure my intentions are honorable,” he says, and she blushes. Looks away.

“Karen,” he says. She looks at him again, helpless to resist. “My intentions _are_ honorable.”

Karen opens her mouth to reply. Snaps it shut again. _Did he just_ …?

“Frank,” she breathes, and then he leans forward and kisses her.

It’s a little hesitant, at first, just the soft brush of his lips against hers. She can feel him holding back, giving her plenty of time to decide if she wants this or not. It takes her no time at all to show him her decision.

His hands are still on her shoulders, so she slides her arms around his waist, pulling him closer and kissing him back, hard. He smiles without pulling away, and she feels it all the way to her toes.

She nibbles on his lower lip and is rewarded by a growl deep in his throat. He licks into her mouth and she sighs against him, one hand moving from his waist to grip the collar of his jacket and pull him closer. He slides a hand into her hair, fingers cupping the back of her head.

Frank eventually softens the kiss and pulls away slightly, dropping his forehead to rest against her own. She lets her eyes drift closed, feels the heat of him against her.

“Goddamn,” she says, and he laughs. “We could just… go back to my place and make out instead of letting Matt judge us…”

He hesitates, but shakes his head.

“Nah, let's get this over with. We've got time.”

She looks at him then. His dark gaze is soft, a smile tugging at his lips. He kisses her cheek, her temple, the tip of her nose.

Time. She likes the sound of that.

It sounds like an after.

**Author's Note:**

> I have some copy that I cut from this because it wasn’t working but that may end up in an epilogue of sorts, I haven’t decided yet.


End file.
